Abuse of Power

by Michael Savage

  Climbing from the bin, Tony grabbed a napkin and walked toward the sink.

  “Okay, that was fun. And no broken bones, thank you very much. Where do I go from here?”

  “You’re actually pretty close,” Karras told him. “Depending on how you’re positioned, there should be a door to your left, followed by a long corridor that eventually opens out into an old boiler room. You’ll find the sealed-off elevator to your right with the auxiliary hatch to the left of it. If anyone’s coming up, that’s where you’ll find them.”

  “What’s going on upstairs in the courtyard?” Tony asked as he ran the napkin under water.

  “The Prez is shaking hands and making small talk, but he’s making his way inside.”

  Minutes mattered now.

  Seconds.

  “Is that running water I hear?” Max asked.

  “Yeah. I’m wetting a napkin so I can wring it real tight. Makes a helluva whip if you crack a guy across the eyes with it.”

  “Sweet,” Karras said.

  “Yeah, if I don’t run across more than a rogue or two. Either of you heard from Jack?”

  “Not a peep,” Max told him.

  “Wonderful.”

  What the hell is he up to?

  Tony wrung out the napkin, twisted it tight, and looped it in his hand, ready to use if necessary. He located the door on his left and made his way to it. He turned the knob, opening it just a crack.

  The corridor beyond was dimly lit, the ceiling and one wall lined with huge round plumbing pipes. As Tony moved into it, he wished they had figured some way to smuggle weapons into the place. He’d hate to run into a small army of terrorists while carrying nothing more than a wet napkin.

  Quietly closing the door behind him, he worked his way down the corridor, following it as it curved slightly to the left. As he approached the mouth of the corridor, which opened onto the old boiler room, he heard the faint sound of a radio playing. An easy-listening station.

  Someone was down here.

  Edging to his right, Tony took cover behind a large plumbing duct and peered into the dimly lit room.

  What he saw froze his heart.

  A uniformed museum guard lay on the floor next to an old cage-style elevator. The doors to the cage were shut and secured with a thick chain and padlock. And just to the left of this was a small hatch in the floor. It had also been secured by a chain and padlock, but they lay discarded next to it and the hatch was hanging open.

  This was not good.

  Scanning the room and seeing no sign of a threat, Tony stepped from behind the duct and quickly moved to the guard. Crouching down, he grabbed the young man’s wrist and felt a faint throbbing.

  Still alive.

  Activating his com line, Tony said, “Jack, if you’re out there, we have a serious—”

  Before he could finish, something solid hit him across the back of the head and he spiraled into darkness.

  * * *

  “We were warned you might show up here,” Forsyth said.

  They had taken Jack through a hallway just off the museum foyer and sat him in a small square room with stiff-backed chairs and an interview table. One wall had a large window that looked into a room full of security monitors, two uniformed guards manning them. The two special agents hovered nearby, eyeballing Jack as Forsyth took a seat across the table from him.

  “Warned by who?” Jack asked, although he had a pretty good idea.

  “It was one of those trickle-down situations,” Forsyth said. “When I heard your name, I got very interested.

  “We saw you arrive, watched you work your way from room to room, but the funny thing is, you seem more interested in casing the place than admiring any of the artwork.”

  Jack didn’t explain. Not yet. “What’s the FBI doing here?” he asked.

  “Everyone’s a little touchy after what happened downtown, Jack. You understand. And since the President refused to cancel this trip, the Secret Service asked us to lend a hand. So here we are.” He paused. “But the real question is, why are you here?”

  Jack studied him carefully. He hadn’t liked Forsyth from the minute he met him at the bomb site nearly two weeks ago. He was an arrogant SOB, and after that press conference Jack knew the guy had participated in a cover-up. The question was, how deep did his involvement go?

  Jack glanced at one of the security monitors and saw the President shaking hands with guests in the courtyard.

  Time was running out.

  “Nothing to tell me?” Forsyth asked.

  “Not yet,” Jack said. He was still trying to decide if he could trust this man and, if so, what he should tell him. Tony and the others were still out there and he didn’t want to compromise what they were doing.

  Forsyth shook his head. “I keep racking my brain, trying to figure you out. Considering your affection for Muslims, it makes some kind of crazy sense that you’re here to disrupt the evening’s proceedings. But I can’t imagine exactly what you were hoping to accomplish.”

  “What do you think?”

  “I honestly don’t know, Jack.”

  Jack had been studying him closely. The man truly did seem confused. Jack decided to test him.

  “You know why I’m here,” he said. “You know what’s going on. Hell, you’re part of it.”

  Forsyth frowned. “Am I? That’s news to me. What am I a part of?”

  “You’re working with Soren, Swain, and the others—”

  The frown deepened. “What?”

  Jack had one more stone to throw.

  “And you’ve got Sara. What did you do with her?”

  Now the frown turned into a look of complete incredulity. “Sara? Who the hell is Sara? You’re talking like a crazy man, Hatfield. Are you nuts? Has that been your problem from the get-go?”

  Jack was beginning to think that maybe Forsyth was clean. Back at the press conference, he seemed to know—or at least, not want to know—that they were scapegoating the Constitutional Defense Brigade. He had to play along with that one, let the justice system work its magic.

  But killing a President?

  Jack glanced at the security monitors and saw that the President was moving toward a podium on a small stage as the guests applauded enthusiastically.

  Returning his gaze to Forsyth, Jack studied him carefully, studied his eyes, then decided to take a leap of faith.

  “All right,” Jack said, “listen to me very carefully. The President and everyone in this place is in danger.”

  Forsyth’s expression went cold as he leaned forward in his chair. “Meaning what, exactly?”

  “A group called the Hand of Allah is smuggling a bomb into the building. It may already be here. I think they’re planning to set it off in the middle of the President’s speech.”

  “In here. With all the security.”

  “The security’s been compromised. You can thank Senator Wickham for that.”

  Forsyth sat back as he considered what Jack had told him.

  “You know,” the agent said thoughtfully, “I was right about you. You are crazy.”

  * * *

  Doc, Goldman, and Abernathy worked their way through the dark tunnel with quiet deliberation, staying low to the ground, using their flashlight beams sparingly.

  Doc continued on point and allowed his memory to guide them. It had killed him to leave that woman lying naked in the bunk room, but there was no helping her now. He had vowed to her that he would return, and he would. Right now, they had other business to take care of.

  Moving close to the wall, Doc remembered a right turn up ahead. He flashed his Mini Maglite, indicating the turn, then led the team around the corner.

  The floor began to slant upward, getting steeper with every step. As they crested the rise, they saw faint light spilling out from another bunk room up ahead, voices echoing faintly—

  —Arab voices.

  Doc motioned the others to stop then listened carefully. No question about it.

 
The sound of the language wrapped itself around Doc’s chest and squeezed, heat and anger boiling up inside as he thought again about that poor woman.

  None of the three men spoke. They seemed to be working together telepathically as they each did a quick weapons check in the dark.

  Tension crept into Doc’s shoulders and he did a couple neck rolls to try to loosen it. Judging by the voices, the three of them were outnumbered. All they had was surprise.

  They’d have to do this kamikaze style and hope for the best.

  Bracing himself, he turned slightly and whispered, “On three,” then quietly counted off.

  They made the turn into the room running, not waiting for a reaction before they opened fire.

  The room erupted in shouts and cries. There were at least seven of the bastards, all young and very, very quick as they jumped for cover and came up again with weapons in hand, the room exploding in gunfire.

  Doc hammered one between the eyes and he flew back against the wall, dead before he hit it. But then one of his buddies swung toward him with an automatic rifle and opened fire.

  Doc dropped and rolled back toward the bend in the tunnel to regroup. He felt pain sting his right calf and then another shot hit his arm and his Beretta went spinning.

  The shouts and ugly flashes of gunfire continued, steady and deafening. He had no idea where Abernathy and Goldman were, but after several seconds of complete chaos, the tunnel suddenly went silent.

  The only sounds were muffled, ragged breaths. A quiet moan.

  Doc hugged the darkness, dread washing through him as he heard the Arab voices pick up again, sounding as stunned as he felt.

  At least three of them were left.

  Mustering his strength, he crawled back toward the room, peering into it from the darkness. He saw Goldman crumpled in a corner and Abernathy on his back, blood seeping from a wound in his neck.

  He would mourn his brave friends later. There was still a mission to complete.

  The three remaining Arabs hurriedly checked the others. They obviously hadn’t seen how many men rushed them, didn’t look to see if there were any more. They were young and inexperienced, but Doc guessed they were also on a timetable. This firefight had set them behind.

  They chattered shakily as they quickly slipped into white coats—servant’s coats. One of them was strapped with enough C4 to take out a city block. There was blood on his chest, just below the right shoulder, but Doc couldn’t tell if he’d been hit or if it was someone else’s. The little rat didn’t seem to be affected by it. He was a slender man—a boy really—and when he buttoned the coat over the vest only a seasoned eye would know there was anything off about it.

  The three men moved together to a narrow shaft in the corner of the room, glancing briefly at the carnage behind and using fingers to try and unclog their firefight-clouded ears before climbing the rebar ladder and disappearing into the darkness above.

  Doc pulled himself upright, wincing against the pain in his arm and calf. He didn’t have time to check on his friends, to see if they were dead or alive. Not now. Retrieving Abernathy’s SIG 9 mil and his own Beretta, he tried activating his com unit again. All he got was static.

  He didn’t know how he’d manage it, but he knew he had to get up that ladder and send out a warning call before it was too late.

  * * *

  Jack glanced at the security monitors and saw that the President was being introduced by the museum curator.

  “Look,” he said, his desperation growing, “I’m telling you the truth. If we don’t act now, we’re gonna have one helluva disaster on our hands. Not that any of us will be alive to see it.”

  But Forsyth wasn’t buying it.

  “That’s a nice story, Jack, but you want to tell me how anyone could get a bomb into this place? We’re isolated. This museum has been sniffed fifty ways to Sunday. You’d be lucky to get nail clippers past that security—”

  “Through the tunnels,” Jack told him.

  Forsyth studied him a moment and sighed. “The tunnels? You’re talking about the old Second World War bunkers?”

  “They lead straight to the basement.”

  “We’re aware of that. That’s why we put a security man down there. But those things were locked down years ago, and even if someone managed to get inside, there’s no possible way—”

  Jack’s earpiece suddenly came alive. “Jack? Max? Does anyone read me?”

  It was Doc Matson.

  Jack immediately responded. “Here, Doc. What’s going on?”

  Forsyth and his two companions all jerked back. They gave Jack a quizzical look.

  “The hatch is open and Tony’s down,” Doc said. “They got through, three of them in white coats. All Arab. They’re posing as servants and one of them is strapped to explode.”

  Jack felt the bottom drop from his stomach. “Is Tony alive?”

  “Yeah, he’s coming around.”

  Forsyth frowned. “Hatfield?”

  “Doc, get him into that tunnel and get the hell away from here,” Jack said. “Max, Karras? You two get out of here as—”

  “Who the hell are you talking to?” Forsyth demanded.

  One of the other agents saw the small device in Jack’s ear. He pointed it out to Forsyth.

  “Are you completely out of your mind?” Forsyth demanded.

  Jack got to his feet. “I told you, we don’t have time to argue about this! The bombers are here. They’re posing as—”

  “Sit down, goddamn it! This interview isn’t over until I say it’s—”

  “We don’t have time!” Jack shouted, then suddenly swung his arm straight out. He clotheslined one of the special agents as he ran forward, then flipped the other as he tried to grab Jack from behind. The agent went over his wounded shoulder, but that only pissed Jack off. He was out the door and running before Forsyth could reach his shoulder holster, headed through the foyer toward the courtyard. He came to a stop at the museum entrance and stared out at the crowd.

  The place was packed. The glitterati had gathered around the podium and were still applauding as the President put his hands up to silence them. Jack scanned the courtyard desperately, looking for white jackets, but they seemed to be everywhere and there was no way of knowing who might be their guy.

  Would it be Hassan Haddad?

  As the applause died down, the President said, “I want to thank you all for coming here tonight to this important event. A gathering of people of all political persuasions, who have joined to celebrate the art of a religion and culture that has given the world so much, yet has come under great scrutiny these last several years, much of it negative.”

  “Given the world so much,” Jack thought bitterly as he heard footsteps pounding behind him. He didn’t have to look back to know it was Forsyth and his men racing down the hall. They would have radioed other agents, the Secret Service. Operatives would be peeling off, converging on this spot. He stepped into the courtyard and started threading his way through the crowd, searching it desperately, looking for Arab faces to match the white jackets.

  Looking for a man with a wispy goatee.

  “Hatred takes many forms,” the President continued, “and much of that hatred stems from our lack of knowledge about those we hate. We form ideas about others based on stereotypes, and those stereotypes, while sometimes grounded in a sliver of reality, do not tell us about the whole person. The whole culture.”

  As he continued to search, Jack noted movement around him, agents with earpieces wending toward him from all sides. He ignored them, shifting his gaze from white jacket to white jacket.

  “So tonight, thanks to the work of the California Palace of the Legion of Honor, we have a chance to see a side of the Islamic culture that we don’t often see. A glimpse into the artistry and passion that helps to define a people.”

  Then Jack saw it. Not a face. Not the sign he expected, but there it was—a red stain spreading across the shoulder of one of those white jackets, and
he sure as hell didn’t think the guy had cut himself in the kitchen.

  Not in the chest he hadn’t.

  Jack shot forward, shoving people aside, moving toward that red-stained jacket as it weaved in and out of the crowd, getting closer to the podium. Jack suddenly felt hands grabbing him, roughly pulling him aside—Forsyth and his two men, with two Secret Service agents getting into the act.

  “Not me, him!” Jack told them, trying to point toward the jacket with the red stain.

  A ripple went through the crowd, caused by the commotion in their midst. Several Secret Service agents assigned directly to the President sensed something wrong and started toward the podium, first at a fast walk and then at a trot.

  Just ten yards from the podium, the man with the red-stained jacket realized this was as far as he’d get. He stopped and shouted, “Allah Akbar!” as he ripped open his jacket, spinning around to show the crowd a vest full of C4 with an LED timer attached—

  —the timer ticking down from ten seconds.

  Jack stared. It wasn’t Hassan Haddad at all. It was a twentysomething-year-old kid.

  “Allah Akbar!” the man cried again, his face turned toward the heavens, as the entire place descended into pandemonium.

  Jack struggled with the men who had grabbed him, their grip loosening as they began to see that he wasn’t the problem. Wrenching free, Jack jumped toward the Arab as the President was rushed from the venue and guests screamed in terror as they scrambled for the exit.

  Jack was fighting against a human tide as he watched the timer tick down—

  —eight, seven, six, five, four—

  A shot cracked, tearing a bloody hole in the side of the bomber’s head. Brain splattered on the guests as the force of the impact spun him around.

  —three, two, one—

  The kid dropped to the floor, lost in the panicked mob, and Jack knew it was too late, knew that nothing could be done to stop it as—